


something there is about you

by josiebelladonna



Category: Anthrax (US Band), Bandom, Nuclear Assault (Band), Overkill (Band)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Bad Dirty Talk, Baggage claim on the author's part, Band Fic, Damsels in Distress, Dirty Jokes, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friendship/Love, Long-Distance Relationship, Male-Female Friendship, POV Multiple, Phone Sex, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:40:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24014599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josiebelladonna/pseuds/josiebelladonna
Summary: They were three friends who had known each other since their prepubescent days and their relationship only grew stronger by the fact they were the only girls going to metal shows. They found themselves drawn to those three mysterious men from the East Coast scene as their bands toured on the opposite side of the country, and separate incidents only complicated things.Can these girls rise over the men in the audience and strike the balance of potentially long distance relationships, or will it all come unraveled?
Relationships: Bobby Blitz/Original Female Character, Dan Lilker/Original Female Character, Joey Belladonna/Original Female Character





	1. santa monica

**Author's Note:**

> This is a revamp of a fic I collaborated with two former friends back in 2013 because I liked the story; I connected with it so much, even after our falling out - needless to say, I was heartbroken afterwards. After Joey showed his praise of me last month, I returned to it (yeah, blame him for this ha!) and decided to bring it to the light of day.  
> It was originally a grunge fic revolving Jerry from Alice in Chains, Mike from Pearl Jam, and Ben from Soundgarden, three bands very near and dear to me, but I wanted to give it a new look, though.  
> Add to this... Jesus, I thought Anthrax were an untapped fandom. Nuclear Assault has nada, and there's a one shot with Bob and D.D. in the Overkill tag.
> 
> My girls:  
> Arielle Carmichael  
> Amie Fairweather  
> Alison Bernstein
> 
> And if you're curious as where I came up with the names? I was going to be named Amie and Alison, after the Pure Prairie League and Elvis Costello songs respectively (my parents are as genuine of music fans as I am). Arielle was a girl I used to hang out with in school.  
> I own nothing, save for my OCs: if I did, baby, you know I would enjoy every minute of it.
> 
>  _"Something there is about you that strikes a match in me,  
>  is it the way your body moves or is it the way your hair blows free?  
> Or is it because you remind me of something that used to be,  
> somethin' that crossed over from another century?"_  
> -"Something There is About You", Bob Dylan

“Come on, Al, pick up.”

Arielle had the phone receiver up to her ear to which she heard the sound of the dial tone for the past several minutes. This was the third time she had to redial the number and call her best friend again. They had known each other since prior to middle school and Arielle already knew Alison slacked on something so seemingly easy as picking up a phone.

She twirled her finger around the spiral of the cord and took a look down at her nail.

 _I should paint my nails_ , she thought to herself. _I should paint my nails for the show—that is if Al picks up_!

She peered up at the Led Zeppelin poster plastered up on her wall, the big black one with the faded golden lettering imprinted all along it.

Life is quite the challenge being a girl who likes harder rock n' roll. She and Alison had grown up listening to Black Sabbath and Judas Priest: Arielle often closed one ear and sang along to Ozzy to help tune herself when she was in school. Before then, she couldn't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow as her mother put it. But Ozzy's sinister drone and ominous vibe gave her the chops to develop her now strong, deep voice. They both wanted to be able to wear a dress to a Black Sabbath show when the opportunity presented itself.

Alison, meanwhile, taught herself to sing like Joan Jett and Chrissie Hynde. She studied the women of the music world while Arielle found herself gravitating to the masculine principle. Both girls wanted to sing and be the biggest metal chicks in the world.

They grew their hair long and they found a deep love of the darkness together.

“There is in fact a strange, peculiar beauty to the dark side,” as Arielle's grandmother told her once.

But even with the shared love of darkness, it was lonely, even as Amie, the third member of their party, joined them to add a little extra redheaded flare to twin their brunette locks.

When the dial tone hit a wall again, Arielle scoffed and hung up again, and tried yet again. Alison was her best friend: there was no way she would give up on her.

She gave her fine black hair a toss back as she brought the receiver to her ear again. She dialed the number once again and sighed through her nose, and reached up to fix her eyebrows.

Arielle had these prominent eyebrows that always appeared to be groomed even if she left them untouched.

She gazed straight ahead to the mirror on her wall, right across from her, and right into the young lady with the dark eyes. She had just turned twenty three and she had no idea what she wanted to do with her life. Three years ago, she and Alison both were confident they would go to school over in the heart of Santa Barbara together. Three years later, the deal fell through and both women were stuck in Oxnard. Amie suggested they run away to Point Conception together, but it was a difficult task to do when one lacked the sufficient money.

There was one good thing to come out of it all, however.

While coming to pick her up for the carpool to their waitress jobs at the restaurant near the beach, Amie came to the two of them with an excited expression on her face and a cassette tape in one hand.

“You ladies gotta hear these guys!” she declared. “They kick serious ass!”

Arielle told her to put it on while they drove to work, and all three women were floored by the sounds before them.

The grinding, angry guitars. The big, guttural thundering bass. The drums reminiscent of a blacksmith hammer.

And then—

That voice.

High, soaring, and powerful, like he was singing from somewhere. There was a man in there. A man singing from somewhere deep and primitive: unlike anything they ever heard.

Moreover, they were fast. They moved like the Southern California punks in their Chuck Taylors, but they were heavy like Sabbath or Iron Maiden.

Arielle and Alison glanced at one another there in the front seats with stunned expressions on their faces, the latter of whom even ran her hands over her spindly forearms. It gave her chills.

Amie said their name was Anthrax, after some godawful disease that affected cattle, and that album was appropriately called _Spreading the Disease_. She only knew the guitar player was named Scott, but the front man, or anyone else in the band for that matter was beyond her. She found the tape while shopping for more music and the clerk recommended it to her after she suggested something fast and loud. Apparently, they hailed all the way from New York: the three of them weren't able to catch them when they toured up in Los Angeles that summer, but they did catch word of their upcoming album titled _Among the Living,_ due in March, around the equinox.

Indeed, the album was released and those men did not disappoint in the least. Alison vowed to wear out the cassette before they plotted on making a new one.

Arielle sighed again but this time, the dial tones stopped and Alison crackled on.

“Hello?”

“Hi—Al!”

“Oh, hey,” she greeted her in her light accent; Alison Bernstein was a first generation American living there in neighboring Simi Valley, with her father and mother hailing from Germany and Sweden in that respective order. She always said her parents wanted to live in a place that was warm, and she received quite the tidal wave of warmth there on the coast. It was even more difficult being so engrossed with the darkness while living in such a humid place.

“What's happening?” Alison asked her.

“How would you,” Arielle started.

“Yes?”

“Like—”

“Yes? Yes?”

“—to come with Amie and myself to see Anthrax plus a couple of other bands from their neck of the woods over in Santa Monica?”

Alison gasped.

“When!”

“The third of July at the Civic Center. She got tickets over the radio just this morning and they're gonna be at will call.”

“So we're gonna get there early?” Alison could hardly contain her excitement on the other end, to which Arielle had to crack a smile.

“We're gonna get there early and who knows? We might ride the rail! That's right, baby doll—we're gonna see those noisy boys.”

“At the Civic Center, you said?”

“Yeah, so dress comfy. You know the whole thing with us wanting to go to a show and wearing a dress all the while? Well, now's our time to shine!”


	2. handle with care

When the show was a few days away, Amie took the time in between her shifts to paint her and Alison's nails a bright fiery red: the latter had grown her nails out a bit so they resembled claws. Claws to couple with the little dark floral sundress she had set aside for herself; Amie was to going to be the “red dawn” as she referred to herself. Arielle on the other hand chose a bright, almost neon green for herself. She figured that, since it was a thrash show, she should represent to an extent.

Oxnard grew warm and humid with the power of the Southern California summer sinking over them: Arielle began wearing her fine black hair up in a thick ponytail on the crown of her head. Even though it wasn't naturally wavy, she always had some waves of her hair brush against the sides of her neck. It must have been from the moisture from the ocean.

On the day of the show, and the sun began to sink over the Pacific Ocean which in turn painted the sky a lush orange and pink, the three women left their apartments and carpooled over to the Civic Center in Santa Monica.

Not too big of a crowd congregated outside before the doors opening, but even as Arielle took a glance about the walkway outside of the venue, she noticed something off.

“Al, Ames—do you ladies notice something here?”

Alison took a look around for herself. There were some men with long enough hair to pass their shoulders and don up in ponytails to rival Arielle's, and then there were some clean cut men, and some who wore ball caps and everything in between. But the sight before them was obvious.

“We're the only women here,” she remarked as she adjusted the strap on her purse.

“I mean, I know the three of us have been in the minority for years,” Arielle began as she reached behind her head to tighten her ponytail, “but this is crazy.”

The three of them made their way towards will call for their tickets; at one point, Amie peered behind them to find a couple of guys showing them baffled expressions.

Three women at a thrash show with their purses and wrapped in dresses—she wanted to tell them that it was exactly what it looked like.

Since they were early, they reached the doors first and made their way inside first. The smooth dark stage was vast, big enough for Anthrax themselves and perhaps Metallica and Megadeth if they were there, too.

Amie peered up at the high ceiling over their heads and the pure white lights shining down on them. The light illuminated over her cherry waves and the light red gloss on her lips: she peered down at the red gloss on her finger nails. The red dawn about to see her men perform her and her best friends.

The first band to take to the stage referred to themselves as Nuclear Assault. The man out in front towered over them with his big black bass guitar slung over his shoulder: the fact of his height was added by the height of the stage. His smooth, slightly wavy jet black hair fanned out around from his smooth round pallid face; atop his head was a small crown of minute waves. He looked as though he had just woken up from a nap as his eyes were riddled with darkness and his black clothes looked as though they hadn't been ironed in some time. He introduced himself as Dan Lilker but everyone called him Danny in their hometown of New York City, and he formed his band after Anthrax's old singer Neil showed him the door.

“Wow,” Alison remarked when he said that. She peered over at Arielle with her eyebrows raised; Arielle returned the favor with a vigorous nod. Dan grinned at the three of them there down by the rail. Amie clutched onto her purse as a few guys crowded behind them. The only girls at a thrash show. And it was about to get big and loud.

“This song's called 'Radiation Sickness,'” he announced, and turned away from the microphone to begin plucking the strings of his bass.

The kick drum thumped in their chests and the snare sounded as though it came straight out of a warehouse somewhere in Harlem. The distortion flooded the room like a tidal wave. And then Dan's high pitched, short, terse shrieks seared through every corner of the room. Like a grinding onslaught seeping through the room. Like the very act of radiation sickness.

The three of them were about to mosh when Alison felt someone grab the strap of her purse.

She whirled around and came face to face with a guy with the beginnings of what resembled dreadlocks atop his head and a nasty look on his face. She yanked back to save it from the guy's grip. He was too strong.

“Get off!” she shouted over the wall of noise. “Let go! LET GO!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Dan yelled into the microphone head, and it took Arielle and Amie a second to realize he wasn't singing. The music ground to a halt and some people in the crowd shouted. Alison reached up for a slap on the guy's face. The drummer and the guitarist laughed out loud at that.

“Throw that Bob Marley wannabe mother fucker outta here!” Dan declared. Alison's hands quivered and shook from the encounter, and she shook so much that she felt the tears well up in her eyes.

“Are you okay, Al?” asked Arielle with a raise of her eyebrows. Dan swung his bass behind him before he crouched down before them.

“Are you alright?” he asked Alison with a fretful look on his round face; his voice sounded so far away from the buffering wall between them, even though he was only a foot away. “Are you alright, miss?”

“Yeah,” she vowed to him in a shaky voice. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I am.” Arielle put her arm around her as she brought her purse closer to her body.

“We'll keep an eye on you ladies, aight?” he assured her with a grin upon his face. “We need you rocker chicks to help keep us boys in our places.”

After their short, brief set came four men out of New Jersey, Overkill. The front man there was another tall wiry man, albeit with long bright golden ringlets crowning around his head. He wore a little green and black bat on his chest and somebody behind them said it was their mascot.

“How ya doin', Santa Monica!” he declared in a strong bold tone of voice, “I'm Bobby Blitz—this is my band Overkill and we're kinda pissed right now. Why you ask? Well, I got word that one of these three girls down here almost got robbed while our buddies Nuclear Assault were out here playin'. I better not see any of that shiz while we're up here! I'm gonna make you feel the fire!”

And they launched into the song, coincidentally called “Feel the Fire”, a drone of a guitar followed by chugging drums. He had a smooth, almost melodic singing voice but a scream to make even the heaviest of hair stand on end and a growl to make Amie grit her teeth like a little animal.

At one point, Bob held onto the microphone and leaned towards her as if singing to her. His golden curls dangled down so close to her face, such that she could twirl her fingers around them if she could. She stared into his bright eyes and showed him the sign of the horns and the fiery red polish on her finger nails. He returned the favor with a bump of the fist to go with it.

When there was another break in between sets, and steam from the humidity in junction with the heat began to rise and make the place a bit too warm, Amie turned to Alison and Arielle with her hand held before her face.

“Don't you dare wash that hand, Ames!” the latter teased her, which coaxed a laugh out of her. Amie massaged her knuckles even with the pads of her fingers sweating. Arielle was glad they each wore dresses to the show because it was going to get even hotter afterwards.

Within time, Anthrax took to the stage: the guitarist Scott and his thin, filmy dark hair streamed behind him like a sail in the wind. His thick dark eyebrows popped out from his narrow handsome face. The other guitarist, a short little guy with a crown of feathery hair, picked up his guitar and began strumming it to ensure it was tuned. The rhythm section took to their places as well, and then there came him.

All slim and slender with his inky black curls and olive skin kissed by the sun, wearing nothing more than a camo shirt and skin tight black jeans with Chuck Taylors: he gazed on at Arielle with large brown eyes, as dark as the earth, as he lunged for his microphone stand. She spotted a flat, elongated silver bracelet on his right wrist and a series of black and gray ones on his left.

“We wanna thank you, Santa Monica, for comin' out to support us in Among the Living!” He almost sounded as though he had inhaled some helium before hand. “I'm Joey Belladonna from upstate New York, I wanna hear you guys!”

The crowd behind the three of them erupted, but Arielle was mesmerized by him. Suddenly, the man with the voice had a face and a name.

They started with “Metal Thrashing Mad”, a bold move on their part. Joey put one foot up on the amp before him and held the microphone up to his mouth, and let out the biggest, most soaring note the three of them ever heard. His voice soared up to the highest of the rafters: where Danny shrieked and Bob crooned and bellowed, Joey sang. And he sang in such a way that made Arielle oblivious to what was happening behind her.

She fell forward, and it took her a second to realize she had been shoved down by someone.

The last thing she heard before she passed out was Joey shouting “holy fucking shit!”


	3. backstage with a couple of brewskies

_Arielle’s point of view_

Arielle shook herself awake to find she had been lay out on a comfortable couch in a strange room. It smelled like lemons in there, albeit false lemons, as if whoever had been in there before her had cleaned the room. She rolled her head to the side to behold the sight of a black and silver mini fridge on the side of the room, and a low table right next to her. She made out the sight of magazines, comic books, an actual book—it took her a second to realize it was Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar—a pair of empty sacks of potato chips, and a figurine of Judge Dredd strewn about the surface. Someone had taken her purse and propped it upright atop of the fridge: she noticed a sticky note on the front side reading, “touch this and Danny'll knock you dead. Thank you.”

Arielle raised her head right as the door before her opened. He strode into the room with his long inky black curls disheveled and glistening with a bit of sweat, even after he had tied them back behind his head to relieve the heat on his neck, and a joyous look upon his dark face. His brown eyes sparkled with life and he showed her a friendly smile.

“Hey, you're awake!” he declared. Arielle rubbed her eyes and sat up there on the couch to give him some room. He took a seat there at the end, right next to her feet.

“Quite the tumble ya took there,” he remarked in a low but pleasant voice: he spoke with a striking upstate New York accent.

“What happened?” she asked him as she massaged her temple.

“Some guy barreled at ya an' you fell ass over teakettle onta the floor—I looked over an' saw ya layin' there. I told the two gals next to ya to take ya back here.”

“Thank you,” she said, her voice broken from a lack of moisture.

“Are ya thirsty? Can I get ya anything?” he offered her.

“Just a glass of water,” she replied, and he climbed to his feet again and ambled over to the fridge for a couple of water bottles.

“Here ya go, doll—I didn't catch yer name, by the way.”

“Arielle,” she told him.

“Arielle! I'm Joey.”

“The amazing Joey,” she retorted.

“The amazing Joey, yes!” He laughed at that as he returned to his spot on the couch next to her.

“I like your accent, by the way,” she complimented him.

“Eh, it's nuttin' fancy. It's not Scott and Danny's city accents or that of a Southern genteel kinda guy.”

“It's unique, though,” she pointed out. “Like it's not something I hear often.”

“Then again, at least it ain't the Bahstahn accent. Ya know what I mean?”

“Absolutely!” The door opened again and Scott, the rhythm guitarist with long stringy hair and thick dark eyebrows, breezed into the room.

“Hey, she's awake!” he declared in a big bold voice laced with that aforementioned Queens accent.

“I'm awake and very thirsty,” she retorted after she guzzled down a big gulp of water.

“Would ya like a beer?” Scott offered her as he ambled over to the fridge yet again. “Yer two girlfriends out there had a couple themselves.”

“I would!” she replied, and he handed her a cold brown glass bottle. Joey took one for himself, as did Scott. Once Arielle pried off the cap, Joey leaned the mouth of his bottle towards her, and she clinked her bottle onto his. The three of them took a drink in unison; someone outside of the room said something, which caught Scott's attention.

“I'll right back you guys,” he vowed, and he ducked out of there back into the hallway. Arielle and Joey were alone in the room there. He turned his head for a look at her. He eyed her breasts and the way her dress fit her body; all she could do was show him a sweet little smile.

“Heya—uh, y'know, uh,” he stammered, “—ya wanna know sump'n?”

“Sure,” she said.

“C'mere—” He gestured for her to move in closer to her.

“You wanna ask me about how to please your lady,” she guessed, which beckoned a laugh out of him.

“Nah, I'm—” He turned his head to ensure no one was eavesdropping on them; he returned to her right as he stifled a burp in his throat. “—mmm, pardon me. I'm kinda the bachelor.”

She gaped at him.

“You? But you're the front man, though! The front men always get it first.”

“At least, that's the urban myth, anyways. We don't see a lotta girls in our crowds, y'know? And when we do, they usually bypass me.”

“Why?” she asked him in a sweet tone.

“I dunno.” He shrugged at her and gave her a sad smile.

“I think you're quite lovely, to be frank,” she confessed to him.

“Oh—do ya now?”

“Yeah. I like boys with brown eyes.”

“By the way, would ya wanna be frank? That's Frank.”

The bass player strode into the room right then with his lush dark hair streaming behind him like the floppy ears of a cocker Spaniel dog.

“What about me?” he demanded in a pithy manner.

“She was tellin' me sump'n and,” Joey said in a single breath, “she said she was bein' frank, and I asked her why she'd wanna be frank.”

He burst out laughing, that kind of laugh that made his whole face smile. Joey took another sip from his bottle, and Arielle did, too, as Frank reached for something in the fridge. When he strode out of there again, Joey returned to Arielle, this time with his eyebrows raised up a bit.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked him.

“You said you like boys with brown eyes,” he recalled.

“I do.”

“Well—what if I told you that I like girls with brown eyes? Makes me feel a li'l less alone.”

Arielle nibbled on her bottom lip and moved in closer to his narrow face. Even with the glisten of sweat on the crown of his head, he looked as though he hadn't done anything all evening. His skin had a healthy glow about it, and his brown eyes were as clear and bright as day. He didn't move as she hung before his face.

“I've always known you as 'the voice',” she confessed to him. “The strange, mysterious man with the voice.”

“I do have an air of mystery to myself, don't I?” he teased her with a lopsided grin.

“Very much so.”

“Arielle—lemme ask ya sump'n. Is it the booze talkin' or do yer lips—look—” He never got to finish because she lunged in first for the kiss on his dark lips. As smooth and soft as silk. She pulled back for a glimpse into his baffled face.

“Okay then,” he answered in a near whisper, and that was when the door burst open and Alison and Bob stood there in the doorway with befuddled looks upon their faces.

“Hey, what's goin' on?” he asked them.


	4. a man on a mission

_Amie's point of view_

After Arielle had been trampled down by the guy in the audience, and the three of them had been whisked backstage out of protection, Amie found herself near the backstage door holding onto her purse. Alison on the other hand disappeared somewhere with Nuclear Assault. Her dress remained intact but she could smell the pot and the booze as it lingered all around her. She clutched at the strap of her purse and huddled down so no one could perturb her. She watched a few stage hands run around in hopes of making a spot for Arielle in Anthrax's dressing room. She had been hit hard enough to be knocked out after all.

Bob stumbled over to Amie: his blond curls sprawled over his head like a shrub of fledgling leaves in autumn; he lifted a strand from his bright eyes for a better look at her.

“How ya doin'? Can I get ya anything?” he asked her in his Jersey accent.

“Not really,” she confessed with a bit of a shrug of her shoulders.

“She took quite the tumble out there,” he confessed. She shifted her weight and gave her rust colored hair a toss back a bit.

“C'mon, let's get you somewhere comfy,” he insisted as he put his arm around her. “You don't look comfortable here.”

“Can I at least see them bring Arielle into the room?” she asked him.

“They'll bring 'er in, I promise,” he assured her. Amie sighed through her nose and then followed him into Overkill's dressing room. They were the only ones in there as the whole backstage area was nothing more than a mere mess of things as they all pitched in to pack up everything for the next stop. She sank down on the small couch and watched this lanky gentleman search behind the miniature fridge and a small shelf of Motorhead records up against the wall.

“What'cha lookin' for?” she asked him.

“Sump'n to help you put up your feet,” he replied with a bit of a haste of a breath to his voice. He pushed a tall stool and a sack of what looked like oranges to the side, and his face lit up. “Ah! Here we go.”

He dragged a small gray milk crate from a series of others over towards her for a makeshift foot stool. She kept her eyes on the bat on his chest as he knelt down before her feet: Amie put her feet up onto the top of the crate. Bob ran his fingers through his bright yellow curls and lunged for the spot on the couch next to her.

“That Joey is something else,” she began.

“He really is,” he stated. “He's such a skinny little guy and yet he's got a voice like that. They raise 'em quite the unique bunch in upstate New York, don't they?”

“For sure…” Her voice trailed off for a brief moment when she thought of the set Anthrax themselves had played.

“If I didn't know better, I'd swear they were a bunch of hip hop guys,” she confessed.

“They kinda are,” he pointed out. “Bunch of funky guys with a penchant for the hard and heavy stuff. Like—graffiti with crunchy guitars in the background.” He cleared his throat.

“Would you like a drink or something?”

“Do we have drinks or something in here?” she asked him.

“Maybe…” His voice trailed off. Silence sank over them. That uncomfortable silence that Amie never liked: she always craved to fill in the silence with something, be it music or art. She nibbled on her bottom lip. He cleared his throat again.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked him, reluctant.

“Um—I should tell you something,” he began, this time in a low voice. “But I want you to promise me something, though.”

“Sure,” she replied with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, “sure thing.”

“Don't tell anyone this, because it's hard. I'm tough but it's hard to talk about, though.”

“Go on,” she encouraged him in a gentle voice.

“I… recently suffered a break up. I was cheated on.”

Amie brought a hand to her chest.

“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “I'm so sorry to hear that.”

He closed his eyes, and shook his head: his blond curls waved along with it like a bush in the wind.

“I thought shit was goin' well and she did that with me,” he continued, his voice remaining low. “I was playing bass at a show one day when I got a call. I don't really wanna say anything more, though.”

“It's okay—take as much time as you need,” she assured him. He showed her a friendly but solemn little smile.

“Thanks, doll. I kinda am a man on a mission. A mission to heal myself. What'd you say your name was?”

“Amie. Amie Fairweather.”

“Miss Fairweather. You know my name?”

“Bob Blitz?”

“That's Bobby to you,” he retorted to her.

“You're a bass player?” she asked him with a sparkle to her eye.

“Bass player and a singer, like Dan Lilker. Joey's a drummer and a singer.”

“Guys who can make up rhythm sections and can also sing like it's no one's business,” she remarked. “And to think those who build up songs aren't important.”

He hesitated, to which he peered across the room at the rest of the milk crates on the floor, and then he returned to her to give her a sly grin. “Sit tight, I got an idea.”

He stood to his feet for the other crates. She watched him stack up the crates near the door in a short pyramid.

He then gestured for her to come closer to him. She set down her feet from the top of the single crate and padded over to him as he took out one of the oranges. She could tell these were a little bit old as the rind felt a little too soft in her fingers.

“Lemme see how hard you can throw this thing,” he challenged her.

Amie sighed through her nose and held it up closer to her shoulder. She then chucked it forth as though it was a shot put. The crates toppled over onto the floor and pushed the door open in a loud clash. Bob reached for a high five and they both burst out laughing.

“What the hell was that?” Arielle declared from the next room over.

“Was that good?” he teased Amie, nonplussed to the reaction next door.

“That was excellent!” she exclaimed. “God, I needed a laugh right now.”


	5. the boys of the neighborhood

_Alison's point of view_

She had been whisked backstage with Arielle and Amie, and yet they had been separated by the mere disorder of the backstage area. She stumbled along the floor and burst into the room, where she came face to face with the gentlemen of Nuclear Assault. Four men with their long disheveled nappy hair down past their shoulders.

It was all a whir, flash, and a glimmer: she thought she was dreaming at first.

All that wall of sound behind her. All that whirring in her ears. The rush of the crowd around them and the adrenaline of being up front there.

She tucked a lock of her black hair behind her ear as she staggered before the man himself, Dan. His frizzy black hair stood on every which end as she caught her balance right there. He raised his eyebrows at her and clasped onto her shoulders to steady her. Alison gazed up at him.

“You okay?” he asked her in that New York accent.

She fluttered her eyelashes at him and tucked the same lock of hair behind her ear again even though it needed no tucking.

“Yes,” she blurted out.

“Your friend got trampled out there,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “I—really hope she's alright.”

“Anthrax'll be caring for 'er 'til she wakes up, though,” the smooth haired drummer behind him assured her.

“Oh, yeah, they'll take good care of her,” the tall slim guitarist added.

“You wanna—I dunno—you wanna have a seat here?” Dan offered her with a stroke of her shoulders. “You look—I wanna say, flustered.”

“Yeah—I—I don't know,” she stammered. He chuckled at her and his whole entire face smiled: the corners of his dark eyes crinkled up like little black beetles. He put his arm around her and led her to the small sofa against the wall.

“Hey, John, can we get this li'l lady a li'l drink or sump'n?” he asked the drummer as they took their seats on the lumpy cushions. Dan turned his head to Alison again and showed her that whole faced smile again.

“So—Anthrax will take good care of Arielle,” she muttered under her breath.

“Hell yeah. They're our friends so we trust 'em to the ends of the earth.” John the drummer padded over to them with two water bottles in either hand. Alison thanked him; she could not pry off the cap quicker. She guzzled down so much of the water inside.

“God damn,” John remarked as he took a swig of water for himself.

“You know, I wrote their song 'I Am the Law',” Dan told her.

“Oh?” She lowered the water bottle and turned her head to him. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. That was my song. Wrote it before I was fired.”

“Why'd you get fired?”

“Their old singer, Neil—who was with them before Joey—fired me because he claimed I was too tall.”

Alison burst out laughing.

“What?” she stammered.

“Yeah, ask Scott about it,” he continued as he took a sip of water. “He'll tell you all about it. Neil did it behind his back, too.”

“Wow!” She gaped at him.

“I remember the night it happened, I called him—I called Scott—and I was like 'what the hell, dude? Like Neil just called me and said I'm out.' Didn't say anything to either Scott or Charlie.”

“I bet he was livid,” she added.

“Oh, definitely. I talked to 'em afterwards and he was like 'nobody said to do that. Just tell Danny to get his shit together and get his ass back on track.' An' I'll admit it: I can be a bit of a flake at times. I can be kinda lazy, as the three guys behind me'll tell you. And then to make matters worse, Neil interrupted him and said either Dan goes or I go. He called me a slob and an embarrassment and said I didn't belong.”

“Jesus—I can only imagine the rejection you felt.”

“Oh, for sure. But I pulled myself together an' made my own band here of Nuclear Assault. And Frankie—Frank Bello, who's Charlie's nephew but is kinda more his brother than anything—took my place as bassist. They got rid of Neil—an' I guess that was so hard for them to do, too, 'cause we were about to tour then and Scott was shattered beyond belief. But by some black magic, some stroke of sheer luck, they brought in the amazing Joey. It all worked out in the end—” His voice trailed off, and it took Alison a second to realize that they were alone there in the room.

“I like how you guys are still friends, too,” she piped up.

“Oh, yeah—we're all the boys from the neighborhood. We're New Yorkers: we're tough. We can't stand each other but we're willin' to help each other out, y'know? I dunno 'bout California, but that's what it's like back East, though.”

“Here, we help anyone,” she pointed out and he showed her a thoughtful expression.

“I like your accent, by the way,” he added.

“I'm a first generation American,” she replied as she took another swig of water. “My parents are both from northern Europe. I know what it's like to feel alone and rejected.”

“I bet you do,” he said still with that thoughtful look upon his round face. “And it's not too often we find girls in our audiences, either. Our stages are small, about the size of kitchen tables, and our crowds are complete sausage fests at that. Findin' a pair of tits with a pair of ovaries is a rare feat, an' when it does happen, we love 'em.”

There was a loud bang on the other side of the wall, which was followed by Amie and Bob laughing it up down the corridor.

“We should take you ladies home,” Dan concluded with another swig of water. “Protect you and cherish you. Y'know, 'cause we need you girls to set us in line and everything.”


	6. the drive back

Arielle found herself feeling more than she had quenched her thirst, especially with Joey striding alongside her down the corridor to the side door of the backstage area. A couple of times he peered over his shoulder at her and flashed her a grin. She couldn't help but feel disappointed that they had missed Anthrax's set. They saw Overkill and Nuclear Assault, but they missed the main men whom they had come for.

His inky black curls glistened with the residual sweat under the golden yellow lights lining the ceiling overhead.

"I hope that li'l kiss didn't weird ya out too much," he said to her in a low enough voice.

"Nah, it takes a lot to upset me," she assured him with a haste of breath. She and him also had a couple of drinks before then. Alcohol loosens inhibitions: one is revealed to the world as a result. Maybe it was his bachelorhood talking and he wanted a pair of lips to kiss. But then again, they both had had drinks: everyone had to take it with a pinch of salt from that point onward. And yet the taste of him on her lips was everything she needed to wonder about him, about this mysterious boy with the high soaring voice.

Meanwhile, behind them, Amie and Bobby scurried out of Overkill's dressing room: his blond curls fluttered about like streamers in a breeze. He turned to her and put his arm around her to keep her close to him. He grinned at her as they followed close to Arielle and Joey.

“So where do you ladies live?” he asked Amie. “We'll drive you back.”

“Just you guys? You don't have drivers?” She was genuinely stunned by the notion.

“Yup, just us. We're all in vans heading back to our hotels, but Joey, Danny, an' I'll take you gals back to wherever you live.”

She sighed through her nose and took a glimpse over her shoulder to the dressing room behind them, to where Dan and Alison were stumbling out a bit with water bottles in their hands.

He closed the door behind her; she tucked her water bottle underneath her arm so as to shuffle through her handbag for something.

“What's up?” he asked her.

“Where are my—oh, here they are.” She fished out her car keys from the bottom of her bag.

“Oh, don't worry about it,” he assured her. “Looks like Joe and Bob wanna take you ladies home.”

“But what about the car, though?” she insisted.

“I dunno—let's go catch up with them and see what's up—” Dan's long thin black hair streamed behind his head as he led Alison towards the side door.

Outside, Joey and Arielle congregated at the curb: a cool breeze from the ocean sent a shiver down his spine and thus he pressed his arms closer to his slender little body.

“All that sweat and there's this ocean here,” she pointed out as she huddled closer to him. She eyed the straight bridge and very tip of his Roman nose: maybe it was in fact the alcohol in her system talking, but she wanted to kiss the tip there.

He turned his head in her direction: the lights from the street illuminated his soft earthy brown irises. There was not a blemish one in those whites.

“Wha?” he asked her with a slight grin upon his face.

“You have the straightest nose I have ever seen,” she remarked. “It's like a—”

A black van pulled up to the curb before them; she could see Scott and Charlie in the front seat there.

“Like a what?” he asked.

“A pterodactyl.” The van halted before them and the door slid open.

“So you want me to just dress up as a pterodactyl an' fly around like 'ca CAH! Ca CAH!' while I'll tickle you?” he teased her as he held the door open for her. “Is that what you're sayin'?”

Arielle and Amie both burst out laughing once the latter came within earshot. He bowed his head a bit as the two young ladies climbed into the back of the van there: Bobby followed them inside there, and then Alison and Danny rounded out the rear.

“We'll have to drive ya back here so you can get yer car out of the parking lot,” he was telling her as she closed her handbag and ducked past Joey into the back of the van. Danny climbed onto the grated floor, and then Joey huddled inside right behind Charlie's head once he slid the door shut to his left. Arielle huddled closer to him.

“Aight, so where we going?” Scott asked her from the front seat.

“Out to Oxnard,” she told him with a craning of her neck and a tilting of her head. “I'll show you when we get close.”

“Okay—my navigator here'll help out a bit on the way there.” Scott shifted the van out of park and then into first gear. Once they were back on the street again, Charlie turned the dial on the radio for a bit of something on the trip there, and Led Zeppelin's “Black Dog” came on.

“Oh, yeah, Charlie!” Bobby called out. Amie brought her knees up to her chest and bent her feet inward to her hips. Joey and Bobby meanwhile belted out the lyrics for themselves. Danny erected his spine and began playing air bass.

The three young women glanced at one another with curious smiles upon their faces. Like three little boys enjoying their own music for themselves.

At one point, when Bobby and Joey began head banging to John Bonham's drums, Arielle and Amie were in awe by the sight of their curls flying about in the back of the van there.

Scott had his hardcore sounding vocals for the lyrics as well; Charlie played air drums to go with Danny's air bass at the very back of the van.

Alison couldn't help but laugh. Three young men still behaved like three young boys.

They wound their way through the side streets and into the darkness with the darkness of Led Zeppelin playing out for them. Bobby was the only one with the crown of gold about his head to light up the back of the van; Joey and Danny were almost like dark knights, two dark knights taking these three girls back home with them.

Within time, they reached the outskirts of Oxnard and the sight of the cavernous black ocean outside of the windshield.

Arielle poked her head up in between Scott and Charlie to guide them back to their places. She stood there on her knees and set her hands on the backs of the seats. Her right hip hung right next to Joey's face, and she almost forgot he was right there. Danny and Bobby were also looking at her.

Amie crossed her legs next to Bobby: she adjusted the skirt of her dress even though it did much of nothing because she had no other way of sitting there on the hard bumpy floor next to him.

Alison also could hardly keep her back straight there as she and Danny hung next to the wheel well. Every turn around every corner felt like a shove to the side, whether it be on Danny himself or onto the floor next to him.

But they managed to reach their neighborhoods there in the heart of Oxnard. Alison climbed out first, out the back doors and onto the street.

“I'll wait for ya,” Danny promised her with a grin and a slight wink.

“Oh, yeah, because of the car,” she recalled as she straightened the strap on her hand bag and smoothed down her hair.

“You have a good night, alright?” he told her.

“You, too,” she returned the favor. Within time, Scott drove them to Amie's apartment complex. Bobby helped her out of the van.

“So we're gonna be here in So Cal for a little while more,” he told her once they were both outside. She paused and pressed her hands to her hips.

“And even though it's only been a little bit there in the backstage area—I, uh—I wanna get a little closer to you if you don't mind. You and I had a bit of fun back there, and I—” He cleared his throat. “—I don't really wanna lose you only for us to have spent a little time together.”

She didn't reply but she knew of his intentions.

“Is it 'cause we're the only girls in the crowd?” Arielle asked Joey, but Amie felt as though she had read her mind.

“What would you like to do?” she asked Bobby.

“I dunno—I really don't. I don't know this area too well. Maybe you can show me around?”

Amie grinned at him.

“Sure, I can do that,” she replied.

“Uh, okay? Um—you have a good night, alright?”

“Yeah, you too.”

She strode away and Bobby climbed back into the van.

“It ain't 'cause you're the only girls in the crowd,” Joey was assuring Arielle.

“Are you sure?” she retorted with a tilt of her head.

“What's goin' on in here?” Bobby quipped as he slid the door closed.

“Joey was checkin' out Arielle,” Danny joked.

“Hey, you were, too, Dan,” Joey pointed out as a warm blush bloomed across his face.

“Nah, I was tryin' to see where we goin'.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Charlie called back from the front seat.

“It's these next couple of blocks straight ahead, Scott,” Arielle announced. She then returned to the back of the van as they rolled forward. “I also wanna ask you, Joey—since I heard Bob over here that you're still gonna be in southern California for a little while, I want to get to know the mysterious Indian boy with the microphone a little better.”

He swallowed and hunched his shoulders a bit as if he was hiding away from her.

“So—you're asking me?” he asked her in a small voice.

“Maybe,” she replied with a shrug of her shoulders. “If you wanna. That is, if you're not doing anything tomorrow.”

He swallowed again and shifted his weight there on the hard metal floor. Scott pulled up to the curb and tugged on the parking lever.

“So?” she asked him.

“Um—sure? I mean, I—I, y'know, I know where ya are here,” he sputtered. She giggled at him.

“You're cute,” she told him, to which Danny and Bobby chuckled in response; the latter opened the door again for her.

“You have a good night, Joey,” she said to him as she clambered out of the back there.

“Um, uh—yeah? Yeah, you, too.”

She giggled again as she padded to the front lawn of the complex.

“Thank you, Scott,” she called through the driver's side window.

“Run on home, flutter girl,” he said to her with a smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to ralphthemoviemaker for the pterodactyl reference (don't ask)


	7. ice cream sex dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"Heard your boyfriend was away this weekend,  
>  wanna meet at my place?  
> Heard that we both got nothing to do:  
> when I lay in bed I touch myself and think of you."_  
> -"Sexxx Dreams", Lady Gaga

_Arielle's point of view_

“What should I wear,” Arielle muttered to herself as she flicked through the clothes in her closet. She had woken up that next morning with the taste of Joey still rested upon her lips. There was a part of her that still could not believe she had managed to ask him out, and at such haste no less. Perhaps it was in fact the alcohol talking. But then again, he was the lonesome lead singer, an anomaly in the world of rock n' roll; and here she was, trying on blouses to be as hot to him as she could possibly make herself.

When she woke up that morning, she stepped into the shower and spritzed on a bit of perfume onto her neck and wrists. She ran a hairbrush through her wet black hair and ran it enough times to where it was almost dry upon her touch. But therein stood the hard part: something that she felt would be sexy for him.

But then again, she hardly knew the guy. He was this young guy, this boy, whom she had just met and kissed on the lips while she was under the influence of a bit of alcohol.

She shook her head as she hung up one of her T shirts back up on the coat hanger before her face.

There was one blouse near the right side of her closet that she hadn't worn in a while, not since her first date three years before.

He was a gangly young guy whom she connected through their mutual love of Black Sabbath, and he asked her out on a little date of sorts. They both denied it but in hindsight it was clear to her. It spanned over Thanksgiving weekend, to which Black Sabbath played in San Francisco on Black Friday to make things appropriate, and then she and him spent the weekend travelling throughout the Bay Area. They never initiated contact with each other, but he did take her out to dinner on Saturday night and he did buy her that blouse.

It was apparent to her. It was apparent to her even when he never called her again.

She sighed through her nose and tugged the blouse over her head. It was quite the nice little top with its plunging neckline and lack of sleeves: the black spandex fit her body in a rather nice fashion.

“This is good,” she muttered to herself as she put on her fitted jeans and her Chuck Taylors. Once she had put on her bracelets and tied up her hair in a taut ponytail atop her head to keep her hair off of her neck, she slung her purse over her shoulder and headed out of her place into the bright sunny mid morning.

Arielle and Joey were about to meet up at the little ice cream parlor overlooking the waters, about a mile from the pier: he chose the place, and she figured it was because he was such a hungry boy that he wanted something sweet to eat first.

She was greeted by the sight of his lopsided little smile, complete with the gap in the side of his teeth and his long black curls tied up behind his head and off of his neck. Even with his narrow olive face, he had these little round cheekbones that resembled little ripe apples. The California sun shone down on the crown of dense curls atop his head and gave his skin a sweet glow. A sweet glow for a sweet boy.

“Hey, sweet cheeks, how ya doin'?” he greeted her as he took off his mirrored sunglasses to show her his brown eyes, accentuated by the shade of the awning over their heads.

“I'm doin' alright—let's have a sundae, shall we?” she offered him.

“I was thinkin' of a big ol' banana split and gettin' my little belly full of it, but I'd be more than happy with that.”

She giggled at him as he held the door for her and they stepped inside of the cool, bright lit ice cream parlor.

He was kind enough to offer her a seat at the counter next to him. She opened her purse when he cleared his throat and tapped on her shoulder.

“Listen, about last night,” he began with his expression grave and his eyes deep and soulful.

“What about it?”

“When I kissed you.”

“And?” she asked him, nonplussed. He knitted his dark eyebrows together at that.

“Yer—not bothered by that?”

She paused, unsure of how to reply to that. She gazed into his deep brown eyes, two deep black holes that gaped back at her from a handsome face. She dropped her gaze to his dark lips for a moment, but it was long enough to examine their bow shape. She had to turn away to ask for a fudge sundae for herself and he one of those make their own kinda sundaes at the bar next to them.

She was silent for the first few minutes upon making up their bowls when he spoke up again for her.

“Can I confess sump'n to you?” He brought his face closer to her even though she could hear him just fine.

“Sure.” She was reluctant but at the same time curious as to what he perhaps had up his sleeve.

“I had a dream about you last night,” he confessed in a low voice.

“Oh, yeah?” She hesitated.

“I had a dream—you were layin' next to me in bed and—havin' a moment with me.”

“Like... sexual?”

He nodded his head and the curls over his eyes obscured his brow. Arielle nibbled on her bottom lip: this was all happening so fast. She remembered the alcohol. She could only hope.

“Yeah, I woke up—a little—firmer, I'd say?” he confessed. “I don't wanna like—creep ya out or anythin'. But that was what happened.”

“You wanted to let me know now,” she followed along.

“Exactly! And—y'know, we both were kinda—kinda tipsy.”

“Right.” She dipped her spoon into her vanilla ice cream to fetch a piece of the melted warm fudge on top. She could feel him watching her; she turned her head a bit to find him eyeing the head of the spoon and then the side of her face. Arielle noticed he held the handle of his spoon the exact same way as her. She couldn't help but smile at the sight before her. Maybe there was something more to this boy than she at first imagined, especially once she paid for their ice cream and he offered to take a walk with her down to the beach.


	8. a walkabout city

_Amie's point of view_

She had run a hairbrush through her copper colored curls and wore her best fitted blouse and a pair of yellow capri pants. She muttered to herself as she made her way to her car; Bob had told her about the hotel they were all staying at. She fished out her keys and climbed into her little car; she wondered about Alison and her having to retrieve her own car from the venue parking lot.

She wished for a marine layer of sorts in the hot sky overhead: even sitting there in her front seat, she would peer out the window and she imagined a fine layer of marine rain falling upon her head. But she had rolled down her window and felt the breeze flow through the roots of her locks. And yet the sun coupled with the proximity with the ocean, she couldn't help but wish for a bit of relief from the heat.

She shifted out of the way of the sun by the time she arrived at the dank little hotel overlooking the ocean. She recalled what Bob had told her before hand, about which room they had stayed in; Amie was about to turn the corner there in the parking lot when she recognized his blond locks in junction with his black sleeveless shirt and little shorts in the shade there. He grinned at her as she came within his line of sight.

“Hey, girlie,” he greeted her as he put on his sunglasses. He winced at the feeling of the torrid sun on his back and shoulders, thus he was quick to slide into the front seat next to her. “So where to?”

“Well, you wanted to see this place a little better,” she recalled as he closed the door behind him and buckled up.

“Yeah, we haven't really walked around too much,” he confessed. “There's not a lot of money behind us so there's not a lot for us to do, either.”

“Well, this is a walkabout kind of place,” she assured him as she drove over to the other end of the parking lot.

“A walkabout kinda place,” he echoed as they posted up at the driveway.

“We can park in a single place and walk around.”

“It's kinda hot, though.”

“It's alright—we can walk around through the shade and get a drink or two.”

Indeed, she took him down towards the pier and the sparkling blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. There was a series of palm trees lined along the sidewalk to give just enough shade. She peers straight ahead to the ice cream parlor on the corner up ahead; she caught the sight of Arielle and Joey heading out of the front door there. Amie pushed her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose and Bob mirrored her. She turned her head to face him and his raising his eyebrows at her as if posing innocent with her.

“What?” he asked her.

“Nothing,” she quipped.

They climbed out of the car and stepped out to the hot sun and the sparse shade from the palm trees. A light breeze from the ocean fluttered the palm fronds over their heads.

Amie slung her purse over her shoulder and rounded the front of the car to meet up with him. Even with the hot sun, they managed to take a stroll about the sidewalk. Indeed, to their left, there stood a bank, a cafe, a leather shop, the ice cream parlor, an Italian restaurant, a bead store, a surf shop, and a comic book store. The blocks led up towards the heart of Ventura and Oxnard, and Bob could in fact see what she meant by the term “walkabout”.

He turned his head to the sands and the sparkling stretch of blue ocean to the right. Amie gave her red curls a slight flip to keep them off of the back of her neck. She noticed Joey and Arielle talking to a brunette woman with an easel posted up before her there in a shady spot on the sidewalk. She wondered if they were about to get one of those parody drawings from the woman there, and she wondered if she and Bob could do the same thing. The artist moved about the paper on the easel with her thick markers; and Amie was about to suggest it to him when he spoke again.

“Let's stay together,” he suggested to her.

“I agree,” she said with another flip of her hair. “But you're going back to New Jersey soon enough, though.”

“In a week and a half if I remember correctly, but in the next several days, we're gonna be through the rest of the southern California, like we're wrapping up in San Diego. And then we go back East.” He followed her gaze to Joey and Arielle posing next to each other on the corner up ahead; even with the heat of the afternoon, he kept his head over her shoulder and gave the artist a sweet smile.

“Let's do what Joseph and Arielle are doin' and pose for a li'l artist girl,” he called in a loud voice. But neither of them heard him over the noise of the street, and the fact the girl worked at a quick pace with those markers. She was a pro.

By the time Amie and Bob stood right across the street, the artist handed them the paper with the caricature scribed upon it. Arielle said something and then Joey followed up with “—belly full of ice cream and one hell of a drawing—I feel like this day can't any better.”

They thanked her and strode away with the drawing she had made for them.

“You wanna?” Bob offered to her.

“Absolutely!” she declared.

Once the street was clear, the two of them crossed and met up with the artist for a caricature of their own. The pens stroked over the paper with such speed and such silence. The two of them stood still as she drew her wavy copper locks and his bright blond corkscrews. Even with the breeze from the ocean, she worked as if she was alone in her studio.

Within time, she had a full drawing for them. She handed it to them, to which Amie paid her a few bucks in return for it. The shading was soft and subtle and yet they both could see it around the distorted features of their faces and their bodies: she even got it down to the stray lock of Bob's hair jutted out from the side of his head.

“Thank you so much,” Amie told her with a smile.

“And thank you both,” she replied as she capped her markers again, “—I need the support.”


End file.
